I’m placing the bouquet in a vase of water when a sting darts through my finger. I glance down, vaguely noting the blood beading on the pad of my thumb where it sliced against the stem. Then I recognize the flowers I hold. Their velvet petals, so deep a violet they are nearly black.
Black iris.
I lunge for the door, but my vision blurs, smearing into shadow. The handle slips from my hand. As I slam onto the floor, my racing pulse beginning to falter, the Lord of the Mountain makes himself known.
Sleep, Sarai, he soothes.Sleep, my beauty.
PART2THE BLOOM
24
IAM SIX YEARS OLD. I stand at my bedroom window, peering down into the courtyard below. Beyond the sleeping labyrinth, King Halim speaks with a wiry man carrying an oblong leather case on his back. I lose sight of them as they enter the palace.
“Sarai.” My handmaiden, an elderly woman named Hoda, emerges from the washroom, having finished drawing my bath. “Come. We must make you into a proper lady.”
I do not understand whatpropermeans. Why can I not meet this man, this violinist, in my trousers? Why must I squeeze myself into a dress?
Hoda ushers me into the washroom, where I am scrubbed and swabbed and scoured until my skin gleams.
I am twelve years old. Violin clasped in hand, I tremble in the wings of the massive concert hall, the eyes of a thousand spectators glinting in the sinking western sun. A full orchestra commands the stage, their tuning nearly complete.
Sweat leaks beneath my arms. I have prepared for this moment. Six years of weekly lessons, hours upon hours spent honing my technique. My fingers are fluent in scales. My bow hand is adept at all manner ofarticulation. And here, now—my debut. The piece, aptly namedChatterfor its rapid spiccato, is a bright hum in my pulse.
“Are you ready?”
I turn to face my teacher, Ibramin. At eight years old, he had already performed with the realm’s most distinguished orchestras. Now, decades following his solo career, he is Ammara’s most sought-after pedagogue.
“I feel sick,” I whisper.
Soft creases enfold Ibramin’s kind black eyes. “That is normal. If you were not nervous, that would mean you did not care.”
The maestro enters upstage to exuberant applause. He bows, climbs onto the podium. When he catches my eye, he smiles in encouragement. My stomach lurches. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I murmur to Ibramin.
“What do you fear, exactly?”
“That I will err. That all my work will be for naught, and I will fall apart with thousands to bear witness.”
“That everyone will learn you are imperfect?”
I clench the instrument’s neck, dampness from my palm transferring onto the violin’s fingerboard. That is correct. But what does he expect? Father dictates I practice for a minimum of four hours daily. I cannot remember when I last had a respite.
In an attempt to settle my nerves, I search the hall for the royal family. There is Fahim and Amir, both dressed for the occasion. King Halim’s chair is empty. “I don’t see Papa.”
“I’m sure he’ll be here,” Ibramin reassures.
But the maestro looks to the wings. I take a slow, deep breath, and another. At his nod of encouragement, I step onto the stage to thunderous applause.
I am fifteen years old. Dressed in a long-sleeved, sapphire gown, I perform the second movement of Harimir’s Violin Concerto in D minor. Thestrings cut into my callused fingertips, a slight vibrato wavering the notes as adagio eases into unhurried grave, a countermelody to the horns. I cannot release pressure on the bow for fear of losing the string’s resonance. The sound must carry to the very back of the hall.
And when I reach the movement’s emotional climax, when the orchestra joins in a sweeping crescendo that rings throughout the amphitheater, my own tears rise, for here is joy and grief, awe and suffering, marvel and anguish, peace and sorrow. The people will know Sarai Al-Khatib. They will know music.
I am eighteen years old. The throne room is as cold as it is vast: white marble, red stone. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I should be practicing. I’ve a competition before the year’s end. If I were not certain of Father’s wrath, I would have slipped away hours ago.
Biting back a groan, Amir tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know if I can survive two more hours of this,” he mutters.
I snort. “You and me both.”
Once a month, King Halim meets with Ammara’s citizens to heed their grievances, an event that often stretches well into the early hours of evening. Fahim, Amir, and I are required to attend. Stupid, considering we’re not allowed to participate.
